


Upon This Rock

by dancinbutterfly



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gentleness, M/M, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Tenderness, Tomas is a dirty dirty enabler ;P
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly
Summary: After the exorcism, Peter is there for Marcus. He is steady and solid presence to lean on.





	Upon This Rock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



> Rosecake! Happy Yuletide! I hope you like this. When I was assigned you, I had one thing in mind and then Season 2 and Peter Morrow happened. I just couldnt help but write this.
> 
> Huge thanks to cherith for cheerleading me through this ridiculous jaunt (and the rollercoaster that was this season holy crap) and angelsaves for the epic beta.

When the fight is over, when Andy is dead and Mouse has disappeared away from the prying eyes of police, when he and Tomas are done lying through their teeth to grim-faced Seattle detectives in separate interrogation rooms, Peter is waiting. Rose and the Kim family are not here to witness, left for wherever the children of dead men are swept in the wake of tragedy in this day and age. He trusts Rose will see them well-cared-for and she trusts them with the final details. 

Marcus is surprised when Peter is there at the police station after everything is over. He shouldn’t be, but he is. More so when Peter bumps Marcus’s shoulder and says, “You need to eat,” as they stand outside, waiting for Tomas to finish with Rose and the kids. 

“I’m not hungry.”

“No, I imagine you’re not, but you both need to anyway.” He speaks with the authority of the battle-tested and the gentleness of the weary. 

He's been at the station for hours. He was the only one left to meet Rose and the children, hoping for the best. Hoping, not praying, because a man like Peter doesn't have much patience for God, but he has infinite stores for people. 

He doesn't understand, doesn't believe, but he was and is there. Marcus finds that's been true of all the truly valuable influences in his life, including Divine Grace. It didn't matter how much stake it took so much as that its presence was something he was sure of, and ever since that night on his boat, Marcus has been sure of Peter.

He laughs bitterly at the reality of the man who stands with him now, stunned and saddened but still there for them, just in time for Tomas to appear. All of a sudden, he has two sets of dark, earnest eyes looking at him curiously.

“What is it?” Tomas asks, breathless with fear that hasn’t quite left him yet.

"Et ego dico tibi quia tu es Petrus et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam et portae inferi non praevalebunt adversum eam," he says to Tomas, and Tomas's face goes soft.

"I'm pretty sure chatting in dead languages is cheating," Peter says with a small smile. “If you two need to talk, I can go."

Marcus doesn't want him to go. Quite the opposite. "It's a verse from the Gospel of Matthew. It crossed my mind for the moment."

"Yeah? Which one?"

"Upon this rock you will build my church," Tomas says softly. That isn't the whole quote, of course, because Tomas isn't the kind to expose someone's soft spots. He's kind that way. It's a strength Marcus doesn't really possess. There are so many things Tomas has that Marcus doesn’t, especially now, after everything: clean hands, a clean soul, a willingness to sacrifice himself. 

"That was about the first pope, right?"

"Something like that."

Peter makes a noise of assent and understanding as they pause and look around the space. It doesn't look like a demon tore through so much as like a small bomb detonated. None of them says anything, but they all nod at each other. This is as good as it's going to get tonight.

"You guys still need to eat,” Peter declares. “Come on. There’s a cop shop diner down the road that’s probably still serving breakfast.”

Tomas nods, and Marcus doesn’t protest this time, even though he truly isn’t hungry. He doesn’t ask for answers, doesn’t demand them talk, doesn’t question their story about what happened to Andy. He just waits, patient and open, and loathes himself for soaking up their presence, for feeling safe in the sunlight, with Mouse at the hotel with the truck, when Andy is dead in a bag because of him. 

“You guys need to come back to my place to rest for a little while before you go back to that claptrap motel,” Peter says. "After a mess like this, no one should be stuck on their own.”

Marcus opens his mouth, to say what he has no bloody idea, but before he can speak, Tomas answers for them both. "That would be wonderful, Peter. We would appreciate that. Thank you for the hospitality." He turns and gives Marcus a smile so big and bright it almost banishes the shadows of the last few hours. It's almost blinding, with what can only be described as delight and mischief. 

_Fuck you,_ Marcus thinks at Tomas. In response, his smile only grows bigger and more sincere. Marcus wonders if this is how Tomas is with his sister, if this is what it would feel like to have a family.

"We'll meet you outside in a moment,” Tomas says. "Is that all right?"

Peter nods. "That works. Take your time. I’ll be waiting,” he says, making his way to the register, leaving Marcus stunned and breathless at the table. 

Tomas, bless and curse him, waits until Peter is outside before he explodes into near-hysterical giggles. He actually has to put his head down on the table for a second before he chokes out, "Did you hear, Marcus? He'll be waiting for you."

"Shut up."

"He's so considerate."

"I said shut. Up."

"A true gentleman's gentleman, no?" Tomas asks, cracking up again as he fishes in the pockets of his jacket for some crumpled bills to add to the tip. "We'll be in good hands."

“You do know that puns are the lowest form of humor."

"Only if English is your first language."

Marcus slaps the side of his head; then he does it again, because Tomas hasn’t seen his sister in months, and he figures she probably owes him one as well. He finds himself laughing too, flushed and a little nervous because all the adrenaline has to go somewhere, and this is better than drinking or screaming or crying. 

And truth be told, he's never had a moment like this - where the anticipation was a physical presence that crawled over his skin and in between his joints. When he was a child, surviving day-to-day life first with his parents and then at the orphanage was a full-time trial. As a teenager, learning to wield the weapons of God against the hounds of Satan had given him a bigger rush than getting off could ever compare to. When his peers were taking advantage of being at university to pull, he was in seminary. While they were getting married and starting families, he’d taken the Holy Orders and been living by the vow of chastity. 

Before he'd been defrocked, he had enjoyed looking, but no more. He masturbated. He's never been ashamed of his desires or impulses. The Church is wrong, often, about many things; he's seen that up-close and ugly. He wouldn't let them deny him his fantasies; he needed to stay sane, after all. He knew the mechanics. Only imagination and academics don't compare to, well, hands-on experience. He was never a traditional priest the way Tomas was, but even he knows that.

"In all seriousness, Marcus, if you want, we can go back to the hotel now. It has been a long..." Tomas doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Neither of them are sure exactly how long it's been since they truly rested. 

It was before Cindy, surely? Certainly before they found Harper's monster of a mother poisoning her spirit and body. His mind has been in a state of screaming chaos since he murdered Andy, took him from his children and Rose and a world that deserved a man as good as Peter because Marcus was scared and selfish and weak. 

In fact, the only moment of rest Marcus has had since Seattle was with Peter, in that blessed, beautiful quiet. He doesn’t deserve this now, but weakness is something he’s already given in to once today. If he’s damned, he may as well fling himself all the way into the pit. 

He squeezes Tomas's shoulder. "Yes, it has." 

Tomas gives him that warm-bright-hope smile that makes him look even younger than the veritable child he is. Marcus smiles back and thinks, _Yes, this is what family would feel like_. He doesn't move his hand until they reach Peter’s Jeep.

It goes rather fast from there. Peter lives close by, and he and Tomas keep up a steady stream of chatter the whole drive. It’s a lovely little place, small compared to the Kims’, but nice, with wood everywhere making it feel like part of the trees that surround it. 

Marcus has slept in more places over the course of his life than most people have ever traveled, but he's never had anyone make a fuss over sleeping arrangements like Tomas. 

From the moment Peter explains the accommodations in his home, Tomas is off. It’s like a one-man show. Marcus thought he knew how to manipulate people, but that’s nothing compared to how Tomas goes on, assertinghe must be the one to take the couch, that Marcus did all the heavy lifting so he should take the guest room upstairs next to the master bedroom, yes, he insists, no, truly he couldn't live with himself otherwise and that this spot is perfect, so please, let's just stop this nonsense, please, it’s just that he's so tired, are they really going to argue with him when he's ready to just fall over? 

Yeah, that bit could snag Tomas a season on the West End easy, and he knows it. It’s a wonder he doesn’t take a bloody bow at the end. 

Thanks to that little performance, Marcus finds himself alone with Peter, upstairs, just outside not one but two rooms with beds in them, less than half an a hour after arriving. Shit. He might not have thought this through.

“Do you need a shower?” Peter asks. “Not to be rude, but you look like you’ve been a few rounds with a food processor and lost.”

“That’d be great.”

Peter nods. “Well, there’s a guest bathroom last door on the right.” He waves at the far end of the hall with a casual gesture, “Or if you want to give a rainfall shower a try, you can use the en suite in my room. I’ll go grab some towels out of the linen closet; just put the light on in whichever you choose.”

Okay. Right. Well. That’s obviously an invitation, but, as is always the case with Peter, no pressure. Marcus lets out a shaky breath as he watches his back retreat down the narrow hallway and forces himself to move. He’s terrified as he enters the master bedroom, but when has that ever stopped him?

He finds himself frozen in the middle of the room. It’s a very warm space, with a south-facing window that lets in just enough morning sun to fill the room with hazy light. A large bed dominates the room, with a duvet that's blue and brown and furniture that’s a mix of dark wood and gently-brushed metal on thick carpet. He can see Peter here so clearly that his return blurs into sync with the mental picture Marcus was holding. The reality is much better, even if it is slightly awkward, holding out a towel in a blue a few shades more faded than the bedspread.

“This should work for you. I don’t imagine you or Tomas brought a spare set of clothes, so I’ll leave some sweats out for you, too, for when you get up, while I go make up the guest room for you.”

“Or you could stay,” Marcus blurts, like if he says it quickly, it won’t land quite so harshly. That isn’t the case. Everything Marcus does today is a killing blow. But at least it’s out.

Peter smiles at him. God, it would be so very easy to fall in love with him. If only.

He opens his mouth to speak, to thank him, to say that he’s changed his mind, that he has too much blood on his hands for this. What comes out is, “Show me how the shower works?” 

“Yeah, of course.”

Peter leads him in and really does show him how the shower works, a rather lovely piece of interior design that’s dark brown tile and stainless steel and a fancy shower head that is parallel to the ceiling. “Anyway, feel free to use anything in here. I don’t really have much besides your basic soap and shampoo. The gadgetry’s pretty much my main indulgence.” He gives Marcus another of those warm smiles, patient and soft, and then they’re both out of excuses. 

“I joined the Church when I was twelve,” Marcus says, quiet because the air in the room is quiet. “I was only excommunicated six months ago.”

Peter frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t need them anymore.” He smiles back at Peter because it’s true. He used to need the Church like the mother it claimed to be, but he doesn’t now. “I do need a bit of help, though.”

“Anything.”

Marcus's smile is rueful and feels ripped from him over razor wire. “Don’t make offers like that. They can be dangerous.”

“I’ll be generous to whom I will be generous.” Peter reaches out and takes Marcus's right hand in his left and laces their fingers together. “See? I can quote the Bible too.”

“And you take confession as well.” He looks down at their hands. Andy’s blood is gone, but he can still feel it. He shouldn’t be doing this, sullying this man with his secrets and sins, yet he can’t stop. He has rarely felt so lost. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“Oh.” Peter gives his fingers a squeeze and then tugs once, twice, until he looks up. He’s smiling again. “When you said you needed help, I thought for a second there you were going to ask for something hard.”

Marcus can’t stop himself. He cups Peter’s face with his free hand, enjoying the soft bristle of beard beneath his palm, and his heart aches. “Where did you bloody come from?”

“Recently or originally?” His eyes are shining with humor. “Because I know you’ve had a rough time of it, we _are_ in my house, Marcus.”

Marcus has to kiss Peter then. It isn’t easy, it’s inevitable. It’s gravity. It’s magnetism. Their lips part for each other with the certainty of the bedrock beneath their feet and the tide in the bay. 

Peter kisses him back, cupping his neck in both callused hands. He opens himself to Marcus with his tongue and his touch, and blessed, beautiful quiet descends over Marcus’s mind and spirit, and that’s how he knows this is holy.

Of all people, Marcus knows how precious grace is. He’s felt its presence more times in his life than most, he suspects, in the aftermath of a successful exorcism, and has found it harrowing but burning in its intensity, addicting in its fulfillment, agonizing in its absence.

There is always a cost paid for grace in performing an act of faith, but allowing Peter’s hands to work over his buttons and zippers, on the fabric of his shirt and trousers, is different. There’s none of the recent violence he committed in this moment. There’s no pain or desperate defensiveness. This cost is vulnerability and honesty. In this human connection, Marcus has been rewarded with safety and warmth and compassion for his trust and repaid with the same faith in turn. 

He hasn’t lost anything because this isn’t a battle. This, Marcus realizes as the last of their clothes land on the floor and their skin comes together, this is communion. 

When they finally break for air, Peter takes a half step back and looks down to his bare feet and then up again, grinning like the sun. “I knew you’d be beautiful like this. I knew it,” he laughs. His hands are skimming up Marcus’s sides. 

“Peter.” Marcus shivers at the touch. He knows that Peter is wrong. The truly beautiful do not commit mortal sins. 

His skin heats under the praise anyway.

He can’t bring himself to look farther down than Peter’s shoulders, which are pale and broad and strongly built. He’s never been naked like this with another man before, though Christ knows he’s wanted it since he knew what want was. Now he’s here, he has what he’s always wanted, and he’s shy. (He supposes that’s something like karma, though hardly what he really deserves. Then again, no one has what they deserve now.)

Peter takes his hand again. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

It takes everything in him to let go, but Marcus lets himself be led. When he does, he finds it so much easier than leading. 

It’s bliss. 

The rainfall shower turns out to be a literal thing. It reminds him a bit of places he’s tried to forget in South America, in Asia, in Africa, with pockets of jungle where torrential rain pours from the sky in climates so hot it steams the air. But the rain in those places is never this hot; it doesn’t come down this steady, this controlled. God controls the rain at the equator. In this little glass cubicle, he and Peter can play at godhood until they’re standing under a cascade of heat and pressure that hits at tight muscles that Marcus has been clenching for days as he and Tomas pulled that monstrosity out of Andy.

“Better?” 

Marcus blinks through the water at Peter. This man, he thinks for what must be the thousandth time. This bloody lovely man. Taking him to the water and easing his pain, yet again. His answering smile feels broken, yet again. And Peter doesn’t seem to mind, yet again. 

They lean against each other under the spray, just holding each other, for longer than Marcus has ever been held before in his life. Their hands wander, the touches steady and sweeping on Peter’s part, tentative and exploratory on Marcus’s, for what feels like forever before Peter speaks.

“You’ve never done this before.”

It’s not a question, but Marcus nods anyway. The way they’re pressed together, he supposes that Peter must feel that more than he sees it.

“So you’ll have to let me know if you don’t like anything I do, or if something’s not working for you. You can tell me me to slow down or change what we’re doing or stop at any time, okay?”

Marcus nods again. 

“Marcus, hey, look at me,” He pulls back so that they can meet each other’s eyes. Peter’s are dark, and his lashes are heavy with water like tears. “Anything, remember?”

“You will show mercy to whom you shall be merciful.”

Peter winces. “Jesus, is that how that goes?”

“Partially.”

“Yeah, well, if you need mercy, tell me that too.” Peter kisses him again with his hands on Marcus’s bare hips, pulling them together, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, thighs to thighs, cock to cock. Sensation washes over Marcus at the contact, wet and heated and alive and Peter. They rock into each other, breathing the same air in a simple act that overcomes Marcus, a rain and a tide; intimacy feels like it could kill him as easily as it could baptize him into a life without the Church.

He comes embarrassingly quickly, gasping into Peter’s mouth, one arm wrapped around his back to clutch at his shoulder and the other wound around his neck. Peter takes his weight as he shakes and groans out a mess between them and doesn’t falter. 

Marcus doesn’t fall as the evidence is washed down the drain. It might be the only time in the last twenty-four hours that he hasn’t fallen.

“You okay?” Peter asks anyway. He rubs his nose against Marcus’s own, affectionate like a cat. Marcus wishes for silly things, that he could purr and show Peter how very all right he is. 

He settles for a nod and a careful grind of his sensitive body against Peter's. Peter is still hard against his stomach, and Marcus still wants.

“You -“

Marcus turns off the water, a tricky feat without letting go, without pulling away. When the downfall stops, he blinks away the last of the water and meets Peter’s dark gaze. 

“You said anything.” 

Peter nods and waits, silent, for Marcus to work himself out and open himself up. He’s very good at that. Perhaps that's always been the way to crack his locks and open his gates, only no one ever thought to try it before. 

He knows that after what he’s done, he isn’t worthy of this sort of patience, let alone the kind of pleasure and reprieve he wants with Peter. Honestly, he does, but he’s already given in to so many sins. What’s one more? What else could allowing himself to ask for what he wants hurt, after what he did to Andy and all the things he’s done before? If he had any purity left before today, it’s gone, so why not allow himself, just this once, to have a chance to feel everything he can with Peter here, now, before Hell sends something else along to shatter the beauty and light the world has scraped together? 

“I want to have you inside me.” Funny how, once he’s given into the greedy weakness inside himself, he finds that the words leave his lips easily. 

Peter drops his head to his shoulder with a laugh that’s also a groan. “Oh my God, Marcus. Mercy.”

Marcus feels cold now that the water isn’t there to warm them, everywhere Peter’s skin isn’t pressed against his. Except for those places where he’s flushing hot as hellfire with embarrassment, of course. 

He tries to pull away. He needs a towel, to get dry, to get away. “You don’t -“

“Yes. I want to.” Peter’s lips brush neck and collarbone and shoulder in kisses that land on the expanse of skin between. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since that first day. You’re amazing.” 

It’s on the tip of his tongue to argue with that, but he doesn’t really want to hear Peter protest what Marcus knows to be true about himself. Instead, he rakes his fingernails through the short gray strands at Peter’s nape and kisses his temple in answer. It makes Peter smile into the hinge of his jaw, which is just lovely, to be honest.

He’s tempted to stay like this, but he wants to make love to Peter more. He’s waited his whole life to find out what it’s like to join his body with another person’s, and he is so close, and with someone who makes him feel precious like he never has before. So he makes himself pull away from Peter long enough to climb out of the shower. His very skin feels hungry for contact as soon as they part.

Marcus falls quickly into a habit built by lifetime of austerity, drying himself with brisk movements of the towel to get the most he can out of what he has before it’s gone. He can feel Peter watching him for long moments, quiet and still yet again. It’s still a strange experience, being looked at like that, not just wanted but waited for. Yet every time Peter does it, he likes it more.

Peter waits until Marcus makes to go for his hair before catching his other hand in both of his. It throws off his inner rhythm and brings their eyes back into sync with each other. 

“Leave it.” He moves his hand to lace their fingers together like teenagers on a date. “Come with me?”

Marcus nods, feeling an odd sort of helplessness as Peter guides him to the big bed that is gentle and sweet. _Shepherded_ , he thinks. _This is what the scriptures meant._

He had always wondered why such a word would be applied to a savior, after growing up in the Midlands, where sheep were abundant and large and so bloody ridiculous. Now, Peter moving him onto the bed with nothing but gestures and the weight of his body, Marcus understands. There’s a safety and a surety to this sort of treatment. When he’s finally herded onto his back, with Pete beside him and moving to lay across him, that security makes him feel damn well saved.

He revels in the way Peter’s beard feels against his face, ruffling his own facial hair as they kiss. He has to feel it again, he decides, lifting off the pillow to take that dear mouth. It opens for him, easy like Peter is always easy. 

When he lets his head drop back down, neck tired from the strain, he’s mesmerized by the darkness of Peter’s mouth. _I did that_ he thinks, his fingertips coming up to touch the swell of his lower lip. “Thank you,” escapes him like a benediction. 

Peter shakes his head. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Marcus shakes his head in return. That is absolutely not true, but Peter is kissing him again before he can protest. He doesn’t try to fight it, instead allowing himself to get lost in Peter, simply because he can. For a little while, it’s all right.

He comes back to time and the mundane world when Peter moves away. His hands grab for Peter’s shoulders, but he glides out of reach as he sits up and back on his heels and puts steady hands on Marcus’s hips. “Trust me. I got you.” 

Marcus can’t deny Peter. How could he possibly do anything less than trust Peter, when Peter had given his own trust so readily to Marcus, when it was asked of him in far more drastic circumstances?

Using every trick he’s ever learned, Marcus works to clear his mind and relax his body. It doesn’t unwind him as well as when they were on the water in the dark silence, but then, he didn’t expect it to. There is no replicating or replacing life’s perfect moments. 

All his attempts at calm fail when wet fingers touch him. He flinches in surprise, but the contact is steady and patient and warm. Peter’s waiting for him, not doing more than applying light pressure to his entrance, startling yet undemanding. 

Peter sucks on his earlobe and works carefully down towards his shoulder as he slicks the way, slow and steady up to the second knuckle and back out. His beard tickles the finger-shaped bruises on his neck, a benediction where the demon had used Andy’s hands to try and crush the life out of him. That final contrast is the final key to unlocking the tension and leaving Marcus’s body pliant like hot wax and completely open to the contact.

“There you are.” Peter sighs, looking down at him with a distinctly pleased sort of satisfaction on his face. “Love you relaxed like this for me. So perfect.” 

Marcus opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The words get lost on the intoxicating taste of Peter’s mouth and the mind-numbing sensation inside him. Before it occurs to him that he could ask for more, a second finger joins the first, pulling him apart and opening him up. 

Like this, it’s more than just a stretch. Peter’s fingers hit his prostate and press, knead the bundle of nerves until he’s gasping. His lips feel sore and soaked, but the pleasure making his stomach clench has dried his throat out so all he can manage is a moan. 

His body and mind are exhausted and strained and bloody starving for this. His knees draw up like they’re on wires, and his hips move back on their own. Peter licks his lips; he’s hungry too, and Marcus feels like a king, knowing he’s made his eyes go black and his breath come fast from the simple act of welcoming his touch. 

“One more, Marcus. You can take it, take anything.” He presses another sloppy kiss, this time to Marcus’s shoulder, but he waits.

Peter is so patient, patient and solid as a rock for him to steady himself on. Christ, how lovely this could grow to be, Marcus marvels, pushing down bitterness even as tears sting his eyes, if only he were another man living another life. 

What they have is this, and it is what Marcus asked for, so he nods. Then there’s more, a deeper penetration and wider stretch. His hands scramble for purchase in the pillow beneath his head and the comforter on his sides as his body bows into an arch. He’s in his fifties, and even as he chokes on primal bliss, he knows that his cock isn’t going to vie for his attention any time soon, if at all. 

It’s better this way, Marcus decides. He’s not distracted from the buzz of something like accomplishment as Peter hums in approval, as he works Marcus into a frenzy over the sensation of being filled that is so intense as to be near-blinding. 

“Now?” he gasps. “Peter.” He would plead, beg, but he doesn’t have enough air. 

“Yeah. Yeah, now.”

When Peter pulls his fingers out and moves away to grab a condom, Marcus is left feeling a cold emptiness the likes of which reminds him of nothing so much as the absence of God. His throat burns and tears prickle behind his eyes again, but unlike with his Lord, when he stretches out his hand to Peter, he is met halfway. He strangles a sob then, nearly silent yet heavy with abject relief, as he tugs Peter’s hand to his lips so he can press a kiss to his weather-worn knuckles. 

“Not close enough,” Marcus mumbles into into the skin on the back of his hand. 

“Not yet,” Peter agrees before finally (fucking finally) settling himself between Marcus’s thighs. Marcus draws in a deep breath, just to feel the weight crushing him into the bed, anchoring him to the moment. Marcus wants to protest as Peter pushes himself up on one elbow, but then his cock is pressing against him, into him, inside him, and then he doesn’t have the power to do anything but breathe and stare up at the wonder of divine creation that is Peter Marrow’s flushed face.

“How you doing?”

“I…”He closes his eyes. It’s too much with the way Peter is looking at him. “I need a moment.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Peter’s voice is teasing, but it’s also a promise. He plants both elbows in the mattress beside Marcus and resettles himself. Marcus can’t help but hiss as his cock moves inside him, the sting of penetration sharp and a little mean but nothing when the tug of impending pleasure rides so close on its heels, when Peter’s taken advantage of the new position to scrape his short nails over Marcus's scalp in short, soothing trails.

When the burn fades to something like a glow, Marcus opens his eyes to face Peter’s smile. It’s as powerful now as it always has been. Feeling something like a compulsion, Marcus lifts his fingers to trace dark eyebrows, straight nose, and strong cheekbones. “You are the most handsome of men; fair speech has graced your lips, for God has blessed you forever.” he whispers, the psalm dragged from the space in his ribs where his heart lives as his fingers skate over skin. 

“I’m not doing this very well if you can quote scripture at me,” Peter whispers. He hooks his elbow under Marcus’s knee, even though they’re both probably a decade too old to try and bend like this. They manage despite exhaustion and age, and when Peter starts to move in him, it’s brilliant.

There are things that Marcus thought he would want to say if (when) he finally found himself in this position, but he can’t think of them now. Peter’s kissing him, languid and deep, in a near-perfect match to his thrusts. Each time Peter bottoms out inside him, he can feel it shake his teeth in his skull, punch the air out of his lungs, unmoor the earth beneath him. All he can do is go limp, hand himself over, and take what he’s given, with faith that his arms twined around Peter’s neck are enough to keep him from falling into an abyss. 

It’s nothing like any orgasm Marcus has had before, this molten rush that spreads through him in a steady beat like waves on a shore. This euphoria is pulled from deep inside, ripping dark pieces of himself out to make room for his lover, and it just keeps going. He knows it’s vanity, but the look on Peter’s face as he fucks down into him, determined and focused and a little awed, is its own euphoria. 

He needs to know what Peter’s face looks like when he comes, needs to have that sight burned in his memory forever. His need erupts from his mouth in a broken plea that is barely a word. His legs wrap tight around Peter's back, pulling him deeper. Agony is so much easier to take than ecstasy, and he honestly doesn’t know how longer he can bear this overload before it’s too late, and needs Peter to give him this first. 

Peter understands somehow, taking his hips in a vice grip and thrusting hard as he falls over the edge. His lower lip catches between his teeth, eyes shut, forehead bowed. As his hips judder, he calls Marcus’s name. His face is a strange expression of dazed focus, and Marcus feels honored to have caused it. He memorizes the expression to use as a weaponized miracle to turn to when the darkness encroaches on him again.

He aches when Peter pulls out, with an emptiness of a totally different sort than he did before. This hollowness is exhausted and sore, but not raw or painful. It’s peaceful. 

“You all right?” Peter asks as he stretches out beside him. 

Marcus opens his mouth to answer, but what comes out is a yawn. Of all things, this is what makes his ears heat, especially when Peter chuckles.

“That sounds right. Sleep. It’s okay.”

Marcus knows he needs to resist. There’s so many loose ends. Mouse. Andy. Where to go next. He just can’t think with Peter’s fingers toying with the fuzz at the nape of his neck and so long without rest.

“All right,” Marcus concedes. “Just a bit. Wake me in an hour.”

“It’ll be more than an hour,” Peter says, tugging at the comforter beneath them. “You’re not going anywhere until both you and Tomas have gotten at least four solid hours. You need rest so you can function.” 

“Four.” Marcus repeats, careful and clear but defeated, not that he was ever going to win. It’s likely for the best. 

“Come on,” Peter says, holding out his arms, inviting Marcus into their safety. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Marcus lets himself be held. He has done so many things he never thought he would today. Taking shelter in the arms of a handsome man is far from the most terrible thing he could do, especially not one who would keep a promise like that. He tries to fight his fatigue to enjoy the moment because when he gets out of this bed, he will have to face the world and the war and the mess of his life. The loose-limbed relaxation of a body well-fucked. and the heat of a caring sentry keeping guard, and the safety of knowing that for a little while, he could close his eyes and trust that no harm would come to him or Tomas despite his misdeeds, all work against him. With his forehead pressed against Peter’s shoulder in the cold morning sun, somehow, Marcus sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Verses Quoted or Paraphrased: 
>   * "And so I say to you, you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” -- Matthew 16:18-19
>   * And he said, “I will make all my goodness pass before you and will proclaim before you my name ‘The LORD.’ And I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy. - Exodus 33:19
>   * “You are the most handsome of men; fair speech has graced your lips, for God has blessed you forever.” - Psalm 45:3
> 



End file.
